[ a lion does not bow to any other animal. but the dragon is not an animal, is it? he had always thought it to be a myth. king aerys may have called himself a dragon, but all jaime saw was a rat; rats were cowards, were they not? they fed on the scraps other wild animals left behind. and the wild animals of westeros had feared a rat, disguised in the scales of a dragon, with its fiery breath and awful temper. they had almost let that rat burn it to the ground, if it hadn't been for the lion. ]
[ but it's because of the lioness that he's here, in the dragon's clutches. he had made a mistake, had found himself caught between her claws, and hadn't been freed since. he's not sure if he's merely forgotten; a distant memory that haunts the walls of king's landing. the kingslayer dead at the hands of a forgotten queen. but she's not a queen, not really. ]
[ when he looks at daenarys targaeryen, he doesn't see a rat. he knows what he sees, but he never dares to say it. a lannister pays their debts, but they never turn traitor on their own kind. ]
[ the land burns. smoke fills the air. and jaime thinks of westeros, of the mad king's desire to burn it to the ground. he wonders if it would've smelt like this; victorious, with the sharp tangy scent of despair clinging around them thickly. he wonders if what he had done, all those years ago, was for nought, for the mad king's mad daughter has done just as he had desired. except, this is not westeros, and she had not used wildfire. she had used empathy; she had given them a chance, had agreed to negotiate some sort of understanding, yet, because she wore a skirt, she was undermined as a leader. and, so, the mother of dragons had struck. and, in turn, so had the lion who had been led from his den and into the belly of said dragon. ]
[ he looks at her now. a slight smile tugs at his lips. he's not sure what it is that he's feeling. it most certainly isn't pride at a victory well-earned. it's not contentment at shifting from a prisoner to being in a position that almost resembles that of the kingsguard; he still wears shackles around his wrists, even if she doesn't lock them into place or slip them over his hands anymore. ]
I fear the stories do not do you any justice. [ he doesn't say your grace, although, he does say it with his typical humour. but the girl who robert had been so desperate to put to death had grown into a force to be reckoned with. he glances up into the sky, seeing the dark silhouettes of her dragons take ownership of the heavens that are rightfully hers in this very moment. ]
THE BEST AU EVER
[ but it's because of the lioness that he's here, in the dragon's clutches. he had made a mistake, had found himself caught between her claws, and hadn't been freed since. he's not sure if he's merely forgotten; a distant memory that haunts the walls of king's landing. the kingslayer dead at the hands of a forgotten queen. but she's not a queen, not really. ]
[ when he looks at daenarys targaeryen, he doesn't see a rat. he knows what he sees, but he never dares to say it. a lannister pays their debts, but they never turn traitor on their own kind. ]
[ the land burns. smoke fills the air. and jaime thinks of westeros, of the mad king's desire to burn it to the ground. he wonders if it would've smelt like this; victorious, with the sharp tangy scent of despair clinging around them thickly. he wonders if what he had done, all those years ago, was for nought, for the mad king's mad daughter has done just as he had desired. except, this is not westeros, and she had not used wildfire. she had used empathy; she had given them a chance, had agreed to negotiate some sort of understanding, yet, because she wore a skirt, she was undermined as a leader. and, so, the mother of dragons had struck. and, in turn, so had the lion who had been led from his den and into the belly of said dragon. ]
[ he looks at her now. a slight smile tugs at his lips. he's not sure what it is that he's feeling. it most certainly isn't pride at a victory well-earned. it's not contentment at shifting from a prisoner to being in a position that almost resembles that of the kingsguard; he still wears shackles around his wrists, even if she doesn't lock them into place or slip them over his hands anymore. ]
I fear the stories do not do you any justice. [ he doesn't say your grace, although, he does say it with his typical humour. but the girl who robert had been so desperate to put to death had grown into a force to be reckoned with. he glances up into the sky, seeing the dark silhouettes of her dragons take ownership of the heavens that are rightfully hers in this very moment. ]